I gave you fire to fight this world.

Before you were born, it belonged to you. It was the only gift I had to give.

Growing bones, blood, and brain; you grew from flames.

Infused with the fire I grew for myself.

You fed from MY furnace.

 

I tried to teach you to summon flames to lick at the sharp edges of this harsh life,

to singe the outskirts of all that may try to extinguish you, so only you

can define and distinguish you.

I tried to teach you to use its force as your fuel.

I have been to hell to save you the trip, with my visitor’s pass, and each time returned,

burned; skin stripped, branded with ripped raw scars as souvenirs.

 

You would do well to remember: my fire knows yours too well.

It reared it, forged it for you, stoked it until you alone could keep it ablaze.

My fire feels your heat, and smiles proudly at the trail of embers that flare

and swirl up from the gust from the slammed door, or feels the burn

from a mouthful of your flames.

 

I gave you fire to fight this world, infused with the fire I grew for myself.

You fed and grew from my flames, and now,

for your greatest weapon,

I take the blame.

For your formidable defenses, I can only say:

 

Take care.

Beware.

The forger of fire

will fight you fair.